


Even If It Kills Me

by cymbalism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Season/Series 06, dean and cas are stubborn assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has cuts that won’t heal and bruises that won’t fade, and he’s getting worse. But Heaven's at war and there are people dying in Iowa and Dean’s not fucking dying anytime soon, thank you very much. Except the part where it really seems like he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even If It Kills Me

**Author's Note:**

> Goes AU somewhere after Sam has his soul back but before “The Man Who Would be King.” Unabashed six-fix here, people. Happy ending guarantee.

_I'm really not as stubborn as I seem_  
 _Said the knuckle to the concrete_  
—Motion City Soundtrack

It starts with a bruise. Dean notices it after they bring down that demon. It's on his back, definitely from getting thrown into that brick pillar—it's ugly, but he's had worse. He doesn't think about it again until just over a week later, when he notices it's still there. _Shoulda healed by now_ , he thinks as he scopes it out in the motel mirror, but he shrugs and pulls his t-shirt on the rest of the way, grabs his jacket, and goes to meet Sam.

He busts up his knuckles on the next case, punching a ghoul's lights out. They scab over, but the scabs don't go away. Not really. Not even after he finally listens when Sam tells him to stop picking at them.

The split lip is a bigger problem. Hard to impersonate an FBI agent looking like you were on the losing end of bar brawl. (For the record, it was a lucky hit from a flailing teenage vampire.) There are more bruises too, on this thigh, his shins, his ribs. They get purple dark, but don't make the turn to fade to reddish yellow. They're not big, but they don't go away.

At some point after that, a couple weeks or maybe a month later, Dean gets tired. Really fucking tired. But not the kind of tired that makes his eyelids sink shut. More like bone-deep tired. Too-much-work-to-lift-my-arms-right-now tired. He lets Sam drive.

On the third day, Sam drives them to Bobby's while Dean’s passed out in the passenger seat. But it's Cas who says something first.

"You're ill," he says, standing in Bobby's library.

"Bullshit," Dean counters.

He hasn't seen Cas in weeks and he's not exactly excited to see him now. This angelic intervention isn't helping any.

Cas cocks his head, and there's an eerie difference in his focus, like he's looking at Dean's physical presence instead of his innermost soul, the way he usually does. Dean stiffens. "You've lost weight," Cas concludes.

"I'm on a diet. Nice of you to notice. Gotta keep my girlish figure," Dean deflects and shuffles toward the kitchen. He isn't hungry—hasn't been hungry in days, actually—but he isn't going to have this conversation, either. Any second now Sam will step in and catch Cas up on the crazy-ass sigil thing happening in Iowa. Instead, Sam steps in front of Dean, blocking his path.

"He's right, Dean," Sam says, arms crossed. "Something's up with you. You're sick. But it's not, like, _normal_ sick."

Dean points at Sam and makes a _can-you-believe-this-guy?_ face to Bobby and Cas. Neither of them break their stony expressions. He rolls his eyes. "Okay, so I'm a little run down. It happens. Nothing a little R &R won't fix. After this case," he emphasizes, throwing a look to Sam, who hasn't shut up about it and it's potential relevance to the second coming of the end of days, "I'll lay low. Promise. But maybe we oughtta stop whatever's killing people in Sioux City first."

Cas strides forward and Dean leans back as the angel crowds too close. The last thing he's expecting is for Cas to press the back of his hand to his forehead.

"He doesn't have a fever," he informs Bobby.

"'Course I don't," Dean snaps.

Cas ignores him. "How long has it been?" he asks Sam.

Sam shrugs. "Close to a month, maybe? I didn't notice until he busted his knuckles and they won't heal. And his lip. And then, like you said, he's started losing weight. Stopped eating, for the most part. Stopped drinking."

Dean's scowl is all for Sam, until it gets startled off his face by Cas slipping his hand into Dean's and lifting it to inspect his knuckles. He brushes a thumb over the cut at the corner of Dean's bottom lip and peers into Dean's eyes, not letting go of his hand. If this were a chick flick, Cas would be on the verge of confessing undying love. Just when Dean's about to make a crack about it, Cas says "Bobby," like a cue over his shoulder, and instantly Bobby's swivel-neck desk lamp flashes on right in Dean's eyes. He flinches and pulls away.

"The fuck?" He tries to block the beam of light with his hand. "Turn it off."

"Photophobia," Cas grumbles and the others nod.

"Photo-what? What the hell is wrong with you guys? Because there sure as hell is nothing wrong with _me_ ," Dean protests.

The look in Cas's eyes softens from scrutiny to sympathy, thousands of condescending I'm-sorry-I-know-more-than-you apologies welling up in all that blue. "Dean, I'm sorry, but that's not true."

Dean's skin goes cold but his face is hot. "What do you mean? What do you mean there's something wrong with me?"

Cas's centuries are suddenly visible, and sorrow is etched in every one. It's the most familiar the angel has looked in months. "Dean—"

Panic shakes through Dean, because, just, "No." He knows what Cas is going to say, but it's not true. He's fine. He'll be fine. And he's certainly not fucking _dying_ any time soon.

Sam is all big eyes and useless hands. "We'll find a way to—"

"No," Dean repeats. "No. I don't know what kind of crazy shit you've all been reading, or whatever, but you're wrong." He blows by Sam, pointedly knocking into his shoulder, stalking into the kitchen and out the back door. As he storms into the growing dark, he clamps down on wondering whether that will bruise.

— — — — —

"Hell if I know," Dean hears Bobby grouse. He's slouched against the wall at the top of the stairs. He can't sleep. There's a pain in his gut that won't let him. "It's not like the Dead Sea Scrolls are a damn medical journal."

"But it's biblical, right?" Sam pushes. "Or, it could be?"

"It's a possibility," Cas rumbles. "There are many afflictions spoken of in the ancient texts, even through your Middle Ages. I can't know which is affecting Dean."

"But if you knew, you could stop it." Sammy sounds a little desperate, and Dean doesn't like the silence that follows.

They've been holed up here for days. Two more people have died in Sioux City, two more sigils burned into walls of the buildings where they bit it. The cops are muttering about a serial killer on TV, but all everybody downstairs can talk about is Dean and his mysterious wasting disease. _But fuck 'em_ , Dean thinks, holding his breath and curling in on himself as pain slices through his abdomen. It's the flu, or something. That's all. Once Bobby and Sam clear out and Cas flickers off to wherever, Dean's going down there and grabbing some books on sigils. He has a hunch it's gotta be a demon thing.

"He ain't contagious. Whatever it is, it's eating him alive from the inside out. Sounds like monster business to me. A curse, maybe."

 _We haven't seen any witches lately,_ Dean thinks, just as Sam says it out loud. "No genies, no leprechauns or fairies or demigods. Nothing that casts spells. And we've been on the move—there's no way it's a hex bag, I checked our stuff and the Impala."

More silence. There's a clink of glass as somebody pours a drink.

"There's one thing we ain't considered," Bobby says, voice low, and Dean can picture him speaking to that glass of bourbon clutched to his chest, not meeting anybody's eyes. "Might not be anything oogly boogly at all. Might just be a regular ol' human thing. Could be he's just plain sick with something."

 _That's right,_ Dean thinks, closing his eyes. He rests his head against the wall. It feels cool against his temple. _I'm fine._

"There's nothing 'regular' about this, though, is there? I mean, if there was, Cas could just angel him better and . . ." Sam's voice fades as Dean gets that sinky sleepy feeling. The pain's eased up enough that in seconds he's slipped too deep even to be curious about the rustling noise behind him.

"Dean," a low voice says. A hand cups his shoulder.

Dean doesn't remember more than that, but the next morning he wakes up in bed.

— — — — —

The pain comes and goes, but it doesn't stay away. Bobby and Sam keep trying to get him to eat—they don't like how much weight he's lost, he'll start losing muscle soon, they say—but Dean's still not hungry, and eating brings back the pain. It's like getting a dagger to the gut. Repeatedly. Only without the bleeding. When Sam sets a mug of chicken broth and some crackers in front of him for the fourth time in two days, Dean glowers at it. "This is bullshit,” he grouses. Sam keeps walking, ignoring him. “I want a cheeseburger."

"Drink up," is all Sam says, taking a seat at Bobby’s desk.

Dean glowers at him too. "I'm not a fucking invalid." Sam glances up, looking pointedly at Dean's pajama pants and the blanket over his shoulders. "Shove it," Dean says and picks up his mug.

Yesterday Sam went to interview the families of the most recent victims. Today Bobby's at the Sioux City morgue. And Dean's sitting on his ass on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, with the blinds closed, because he's fucking cold all the time for no reason and anything brighter than a 60-watt bulb gives him a headache. He's useless and he knows it and it pisses him off.

"You figure out who the fuck did this to me yet?"

"Cas says—"

"I don't care what Cas says," Dean cuts him off. "He's not part of this."

Sam's jaw drops. "What . . . Are you serious? He's our best bet to—"

"No, Sam. He's got his own crap going on that's so important he can't be here. We haven't seen him in days and if he ain't here, he ain't part of it. This is you, me, and Bobby."

Also on the list of Things That Piss Dean Off is Cas and his no-shows, Cas and his I-don't-have-answers answers. There was a time Dean could count on him and now it's—whatever. It doesn't matter. It's different now. That's all.

"Maybe if you weren't such an dick to him all the time he'd be around more," Sam counters. The he perks up a little, "Hey, maybe that's our problem, actually—you're such a dick, you probably ticked off something without even trying. Doesn't exactly narrow the field, but it's something."

Dean lobs a cracker at Sam's head. Sam dodges it without even looking.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam smirks.

Dean makes an effort to suck down some chicken broth while it's still hot, because it's even grosser when it's cold. He wasn't kidding about wanting a cheeseburger instead. Sam’s told him he's anemic and that's why he's been craving red meat. He's probably right because, hell, at this point Dean would even kill for some spinach, Pop-Eye style. But eating anything other than wimpy shit like broth sends him to his knees in pain. It's like the purpose of this curse, or whatever, is to starve him to death. Slowly.

But what the fuck _for_? He's no big deal in Heaven any more and the king of Hell is dead.

"We'll figure it out, Dean," Sam says, softer, like he didn't mean to read Dean's mind.

Dean frowns at his stack of crackers. "Of all the royally un-fucking fair things in our lives, this wins. Beats em all, you know that? Because I don't get why it's me. And why _now_? For the first time in a long time there's no price on our heads, no reason for anybody to make _Dean Winchester_ suffer." He adds a dramatic hand motion there with his name, like its in lights on a cosmic billboard somewhere. "Unless it's just for some kind of sick joke," he amends. "In which case, I want to kill the bastard who did this myself. Maybe stab _him_ in the gut, show him how it feels. 'Eye for an eye,' that's biblical, right?" Dean slurps at his broth, staring unfocused across the room, imagining his revenge.

When he snaps out of it, Sam is making his dude-that's-disturbing bitchface and tells him that anger is the second stage in the grief process.

Dean tells Sam to blow his pop psychology crap out his ass.

— — — — —

Two days later, Dean's exactly where he was two days before—on the couch, in a blanket, in the half dark. He's got a book in his lap that he can't quite focus on reading, but Cas fluttering into existence isn't what he'd call a welcome distraction.

"What're you doing here?" he asks, newly absorbed by the text.

"I came to see if you're alright." Cas doesn't move, like he's poised to take off again any second.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "That's it? No new info? No hot tips on curing a crazy bible disease?" Cas looks at the floor. "Well then, no, I'm not 'alright.' I'm really fucking wrong, actually, thanks for asking." Dean makes sure his smile is as insincere as possible.

"I don't have an answer, Dean. If I did, I would tell you."

Dean snorts. "Would you?"

The look Cas gives him could wither houseplants. "Yes," he growls. But his gaze slides off, his attention pulled elsewhere by whatever's happening in Heaven or Hell. "I have to go," he says, and disappears in the same breath.

Dean frowns at the spot Cas used to be. "'Course you do," he mutters, and turns back to his book.

— — — — —

The fact that his leather coat felt big enough to fit Sam should've been his first clue. The fact that he almost passed out climbing those flights of stairs was definitely his second. But what finally hits it home that Dean should've stayed in bed and not made the drive to Sioux City, exactly like everybody told him not to, is this part—the part where the goddamn demony thing is tearing shit up and Dean can hardly catch his breath, let alone mutter out the incantation he'd found, or do something awesome like _fight back._

"Dean!" comes Sam's startled shout, but he skips the _What are you doing here?_ in favor of "Get down!" just as a filing cabinet launches across the room at Dean's head. He dives behind an overturned cubicle to find Bobby scribbling some runes on the floor.

"What the hell are you doing here, boy?" he scolds. Dean pants and swallows and holds out the crumpled page with the incantation. Bobby snatches it from him with an eye roll. "Idjit."

"It's not angels," Dean manages.

"Ya think?" Bobby scoffs, just as the skinny possessed kid who's been slinging office furniture through the air speaks, making some overblown threat to Sam and sounding a whole lot like Zuul.

Hell, for all Dean knows it _is_ Zuul.

Turns out the problem is runic magic gone bad. Chaos magic with too little knowledge, too much charging of energies and _bam_ : demony demigod thing summoned from the depths to do your bidding, until it decides to eat your soul instead. It has nothing to do with the war in Heaven and it's not—as Dean guesses Sam had been hoping—connected to whatever's fucking with Dean.

"Think it'll work?" Dean asks as Bobby reads over the words.

"Only one way to know for sure," Bobby says, getting to his feet. "Stay here," he orders and points to what's got to be protective runes on the carpet.

He moves out away from the desk before beginning to recite. Immediately Zuul's attention swings to Bobby and he leaves off from choking Sam.

Sam coughs as the demigod snarls and circles toward Bobby. Dean's about to head over there to make sure he's all right, but just then the possessed piece of crap kicks up a tornado of papers and office supplies that guarantees death by paper cut. Bobby raises his voice, chanting louder, with more confidence behind the words now that it's clear this isn't Zuul's favorite tune.

Laser lightning starts to fly as their demony friend gets more pissed off. Bobby's still looking down at the words, still rooted to the spot and determined to send the spirit packing. Zuul fires more bolts his way and Dean shouts at him to move, get down, _something._ But Bobby just dodges a flying clipboard and keeps going.

"BOBBY," Dean tries one more time. He can see the thing's creepy-ass glowy eyes now. Sam's been sideswiped by a bookshelf and Bobby's just standing there. Dean doesn't care that the damn incantation is working, he's not gonna let Bobby be some bloody sacrifice to a lame-ass demigod everybody forgot about.

He launches out from behind he desk, knocking Bobby to the floor just as Zuul takes aim to fry him.

Lots of things happen kind of at once then. The lights blow. Sam starts shouting for Cas, or at Cas, or something—Dean can't tell because Bobby's babbling beside him, saying things like "hang on, idjit" and "stay with me, Dean." There's another fucking pain in through his abdomen, and it's hard to breathe.

Dean coughs. His mouth tastes funny. Like blood, maybe.

"Get him out of here," Sam says to someone Dean can't see as he scoops a hand under Dean's back to lever him up. Dean winces and curses but gets to his feet. At about the same time he notices the blood on his shirt is his blood, he realizes that the shoulder Sam's lumping him onto belongs to Cas. "Just go!" Sam shouts over another lightning blast from Zuul.

Cas nods, and they're gone.

— — — — —

At some point Dean passed out. He knows this because he wakes up on his bed at Bobby's again, still in his jeans but not his boots, and with a bandage stuck to his stomach. Cas is wringing out a bloody cloth over a bowl and there's a box of bandages on the bed.

Panic jolts him.

"What happened? Where's Sam?" He cusses loudly as he tries to sit up—getting vertical isn't going to happen. Gut wounds are the fucking worst. "Are they okay?" He props up on his elbows instead.

Cas squints a little, like he's feeling out the vibrations of the universe. "Yes."

"Did you go back? Is Zuul gone?" Dean struggles to sit upright again, but Cas pushes him back.

"They're alive. You need to rest."

Dean huffs but tries to make himself believe Cas. It's harder than it should be, and Dean doesn't know who's to blame for that one, him or Cas. He frowns.

"So what's with the band-aids?" he asks, gesturing to the gauze taped over the spot on his stomach that's raw and throbbing. "You couldn't just—" he taps two fingers at his forehead, mimicking the gesture Cas has made dozens of times.

The angel's frowning now, too. "No. I've done what I can, but it's . . . It's not within my power, apparently." He glances down nervously, moving the bowl from the bed onto the nightstand. Dean's eyes follow.

"So does that mean you _can't_ or you _won't_?"

Cas spins to look down at Dean, eyes wide with pain and concern and honesty so eager it hurts to look at. "I would not withhold aid from you, Dean. Not when . . . not now."

"Not since I'm dying, you mean."

Cas ducks away. "Yes."

"So, why can't you fix that, again? Run that by me one more time."

He shakes his head, lips into a thin line. Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, I'll do whatever you or Heaven or whoever needs me to do, okay? I get that I'm the universe's bitch. Not saying I like it, but I get it. Bad shit happens, and better to me than somebody else. So, just, lay it on me."

Cas just shakes his head more. "There is no bargain to be made, Dean. Whatever this illness—this affliction—is, it's preventing me from healing you. I can't take the pain away, I can't heal any wounds you sustain. Your body isn't repairing its damage the way it should. My grace is of no use."

And just like that Dean's back to being pissed off.

"Then why'd you come? Why bother being here? I mean, you've been so busy lately." It's unfair and Dean knows it. Even if he's mad at Cas for being MIA the past few months—which he is, he really is—he doesn't get to be mad at him for this. The fact that the situation is completely fucking hopeless isn't Cas's fault. But Dean's too angry to care. "Hate to bug you with our petty people problems," he digs.

"Sam prayed and I answered," Cas snaps back, "because you ordered that I respond to his prayers as well as yours."

Dean clenches his jaw. _Ordered._ He doesn't like the sound of that. It's not fair to order around somebody who just caught the drift of free will. He seriously is a dick sometimes.

Maybe he deserves this fucking _affliction_ after all.

His anger slips away, leaving a lump in his throat. "Well," he says tightly, "Good thing you were listening."

Cas goes quiet for a moment, and he looks away before he speaks. "I always listen for you." Before Dean can think of what to say to that, let alone get past the hitch in his chest, Cas shifts and sighs restlessly, scrubbing his hands over his face before letting them dangle between his knees. "The war takes much of my time. It isn't . . . it's a difficult battle. I'm needed, but I can't—"

"I know. Cas, hey," Dean tries to reach for his arm but only gets his fingers around a fold of trench coat. He tugs at it to get Cas's attention. "I get it. It's okay," he swallows, "I know it's different now, I do. I just . . ." he shakes his head. The words never come out, even when he wants them to. "Look, you can go if you want. All I get to do is sleep, apparently. No big party. You won't be missing out."

"I'd prefer to stay, while I can," Cas says quietly.

Dean's swallows past that lump in his throat again. "All right, fine. Have it your way," he sighs, rolling this eyes, but his chest feels tight with secret satisfaction. And as he shoves at the pillow beneath his head, he thinks he catches a fond half smile from Cas.

— — — — —

Dean doesn't wake up a lot after that. He sleeps through a couple days, then a couple more. When he does come to, every now and then, there's usually somebody keeping watch. And it's usually Cas. He wonders what that means for the war.

The burn across his stomach doesn't go away, but it heals enough that he can roll onto his side and get up if he has to take a piss. If he tries much more than that he feels like he's gonna fall over. Sam brings him food, but Dean doesn't see the point. He also doesn't see a point in watching TV or having long conversations about his feelings, so being awake in general seems pretty useless. And just _thinking_ makes him tired. It's like somebody flipped the STUPID switch in his brain. He can't concentrate, can't come up with the words he wants. At least while he's sleeping he doesn't have to think at all, not about the pain wringing through his abdomen, or Sam's 120 touchy-feely questions, or how there's no cure, no answer.

Plus, he figures that if he ignores it all long enough, he'll just be dead and, frankly, dead's better than whatever this is. Sam doesn't seem to agree.

Dean doesn't see the point in arguing, either.

Somewhere along the line he wakes up in the middle of the night to find the chair across from his bed is empty. He squints through the dark to see if Cas is lurking in a corner before sitting up gingerly. "Ow, Jesus," he whispers, ghosting a hand over his bandage. It probably needs changing. Dean's cold—he's always cold; Sam says it's the weight loss—and he doesn't want to get out of bed, but he sucks it up. He gets to his feet and shuffles out the door and down the hall to the bathroom, peeking into Sam's room on the way. Sam's passed out with a book on his chest. Dean keeps going.

Closing the bathroom door, he flicks the switch for the light, glad there's still just the one ugly incandescent bulb stuck in the fixture above the mirror. He pulls his t-shirt up to his ribs and picks at a corner of the bandage until he can peel it back. It hurts like a sonofabitch and Dean ends up braced against the counter, breathing through the pain. Another bruise catches his eye then, this one on his side, near his hip. He hikes his shirt a little higher but the bruise keeps going. He can't think of what it might be from, not that it matters. Falling on Bobby, maybe? He peels his shirt off the rest of the way.

The sight in the mirror makes his stomach churn.

In the sick yellow light, his ribs are shadowed like washboards. The long bruise on his side is a dark splotch, dripping down like spilled ink, and the burn forms a diagonal jagged gash, swollen and crusted. There are cuts too, or remainders of them. Pink and brown wounds sealed over but not _healed._ Dean squeezes his eyes shut, outstretched arms ending with fists on the counter.

He's had stitches sewn with floss, claw marks disinfected with whiskey, black eyes and cracked ribs and some wicked stab wounds and they've all healed, all eventually erased themselves from his body. Slices from silver tests and blood sacrifices are invisible next to the new welts and lesions. The only mark that's never faded is the handprint that got him out of Hell. He fits his hand over the imprint, wondering for the thousandth time why he was worth saving then if this is what was waiting for him now. He should be dead. He doesn't know why he isn't.

Or maybe he is. It's hard to tell.

He hardly looks human anymore. They've seen all kinds of fucked up things this year, maybe Dean's some special new brand of monster. Any hunter worth his salt would take one look at him, shoot first and ask questions later. He's walking dead, shrunken and rotting in his own scarred skin.

He's tired and cold and it's too much. It's too much and there are too many scars.

So, at this point, what's one more?

Dean picks up the scissors they use for cutting bandages, opens them like a scalpel, and takes a breath, bracing himself. He just needs to see, needs to make sure. He drags one sharp edge across his forearm just to watch it bleed—to make sure there is blood in his veins and a pulse to pump it.

"Dean."

The scissors clatter into the sink as Cas crushes Dean's hand until it opens. He snatches a bandage from the counter and slaps it over the oozing red slice on Dean's arm, then pushes Dean's own hand over the compress to hold it in place while he gets the tape. He's glaring.

"It's not what you think," Dean says through clenched teeth. Cas isn't exactly being gentle.

"It doesn't matter what it is. You were deliberately wounding yourself." He finishes with the tape and shoves Dean away from the counter, away from the bloody scissors and sink.

"I don't heal, Cas. I don't eat, don't crap. I can barely _think._ I'm a fucking zombie," Dean protests.

Cas shakes his head and picks up a clean bandage for Dean's burn.

"No, listen," Dean pushes, "I wasn't trying to off myself, okay? I was trying to make sure I'm still fucking _alive._ Because it sure as Hell doesn't feel like it. And if I can't hunt with Sam or help you fight that war you won't tell me you're losing—"

Cas darts him a sharp look. He finishes with his first aid silently and turns back to the sink.

"If I can't _do_ anything, I may as well be dead. I should be dead. For fuck's sake, look at me, Cas," he demands, "Just _look._ " Dean stretches his arms out, bares his wasted body for Cas to see, and tries to ignore that he's not just shivering but trembling.

Cas does look, but not for long. He turns his face away, lip bit and breath held. Sorrow and reluctance and something unreadable quiver on his face. It takes him two tries before he speaks. "Dean, I—" he stops again, huffs. "I see your pain, Dean. But I also see you as I always have."

Dean lets his arms fall to his sides and collapses back against the wall. He's just so goddamn tired. "Yeah, how's that?"

"Unrelenting," Cas answers. "Unswerving. Unequalled."

He's somehow a lot closer than he was before. Dean swallows carefully, breathes shallowly. "But not undead?"

Cas chuckles and Dean feels the air move between them. "No, not that."

Dean lets Cas's reassurance take root—he hadn't really been joking. He closes his eyes and tips his head back to rest on the wall. "Okay," he says. "Good."

When Cas reaches around his waist, Dean doesn't object, just lets the angel slip against him, sturdy, warm, solid.

"Hold on," Cas says quietly.

When Dean opens his eyes again they're back in his room. He steadies himself in Cas's firm hold, and there's another one of those moments where two inches and right three words could make it a very different scene. But Cas backs away before Dean can find them.

"I'll go," he nods, as if that's what he expected Dean to say. Through the haze of half asleep, Dean tries to remember if he's ever ordered Cas away. He doesn't think so. He hopes not.

"No, stay," he hears himself say, and it’s suddenly very important to keep Cas here, close by. "Please stay?"

Cas looks troubled, but Dean is too tired for more words to explain. He just knows it's better when Cas is here, and that it's somehow better for Cas, too.

To his relief, Cas nods.

— — — — —

The next time Dean wakes up, he's warm. And he's not alone. Cas is curled next to him, lying on top of the covers in shirtsleeves and socks, with one arm circled over Dean's back.

Dean blinks, scoots closer.

— — — — —

Dean starts his goodbyes with Bobby. Bobby tells him to shut his trap and stop talking like he's dying. When Dean gives him a flat look, Bobby snaps, "You know what I mean," and walks out of the room.

It's easier and harder with Sam. There's so much water under that bridge but somehow they're still standing knee deep. Sam doesn't stop him from saying what he's got to say, but he doesn't cry or gush either. He just nods stiffly, lips pinched, and says, "I haven't give up yet, you know."

Dean nods, wincing through a wave of pain, even though he hasn't eaten for days. "I know, Sammy. But I don't think we have a choice."

He waits until night to talk to Cas, until everyone has gone to bed and Cas has slipped in under the covers next to him. He wants to get it all out before he falls asleep, in case he doesn't wake up again.

"I'm sorry, Cas. You know that, right?"

He can't quite see Cas's worry, but he can feel it. "What are you sorry for, Dean?"

Dean swallows. "I'm sorry I can't stop your war. I'm sorry it's 'cause of me that you're even at war. That you . . . I mean. I know you did it because of me, because of stuff I said, stuff about free will." He takes a breath. "And I'm sorry you're always here now, because it means you're probably losing . . . It wasn't supposed to be this way. I didn't mean to . . . If the world ends 'cause you were here and not—"

Three fingers press against his lips, stopping his words. "You are not the cause of the world's ills, Dean Winchester, and you alone are not the only person who can solve them. Don't be sorry that I love you, Dean. I'm not."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. His chest feels so full he thinks it might split open. "Cas—" he tries, voice cracking. He feels himself slipping.

Cas reaches for his hand.

"I'm the one who needs forgiveness, Dean," he says, running a thumb Dean's still-busted knuckles. "I've done things out of pride, out of desperation. Things you would not be proud of. I thought was I was doing them for you, to protect you, but now . . . I can't be sure." Cas shakes his head, but continues. "What I am sure of, Dean, is that being here is more important than fighting a corrupt war in your name. I would not choose to be anywhere else. I was lost, my spirit was crushed, but you brought me back, Dean. Being here with you—"

He stops with a gasp. Dean can feel how still he is, how tense.

"Oh, Dean. Forgive me," he whispers. "I know now. I have your answer."

Dean isn't sure he follows.

"It's me, Dean. I'm the reason you're ill." Cas picks up speed, "I was corrupt, 'crushed in spirit.' 'When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.' It's you and me, Dean. You were sickened to save me. To keep me here, to show me— To stop me from—"

Dean doesn't know what Cas means by _corrupt._ He doesn't know why Cas is blaming himself. And he can't imagine what Cas could possibly have done to need his forgiveness, but he'd give it, and he'd help if he could. He twines his fingers with Cas's and tugs his hand until the angel inches his body even closer. "You can stop it, Cas. Whatever you did you can undo it. You can find a way, okay? Sam will help. Bobby too."

He feels Cas nod. "I will. I have to."

Darkness creeps through Dean's mind, pulling him down, but he has one more thing, just one more. He struggles against it. "Cas, whatever I've got, it's not . . . I didn't give it to anyone? I can't, right?"

"No, Dean." Cas traces Dean's sunken cheek. "Don't you see? You didn't, you can't."

Dean nods. "Okay, good. That's good."

One more thing. One more.

He tilts his chin so his mouth meets Cas's. He kisses him until he can't, until he's pulled under.

"Dean?" Cas shakes his limp hand, touches his face. "Dean—"

It's the last thing Dean remembers.

— — — — —

It's not one specific thing that wakes Dean up. It's not because he's in pain or because he has to take a leak. It's not the sound of birds or the smell of coffee, and he's not startled or disoriented. He's just _awake._ Awake in a way he hasn't felt for months. And he hasn't even opened his eyes yet.

"Cas?" He reaches out to feel the bed next to him, blinking open his eyes when he finds only empty sheets.

"Dean!" Sam blurts. He leans forward eagerly, all wide eyes and floppy hair. Dean smiles.

"Sammy. How long was I out?"

Sam switches to confused face. "Just overnight. But we thought that was it, we didn't think you'd make it. But—you're awake!"

"I'm awake," Dean nods, sitting up slowly. He still has all his bumps and bruises, plus the burn, which itches like a mofo all the sudden.

"How do you feel? Do you want anything?"

"A shower," Dean quips, and gives himself a second to take stock. His stomach hurts, sharp and strong, but it's a constant ache, not a stabbing one. He feels weak but not fatigued, and his head feels clear, if a little woozy—all of which is probably from not eating for a couple days. It takes longer for those things to click than it should, but they do. Dean's eyebrows crunch together and he feels his stomach rumble. "And I think I'm hungry."

Sam flashes him one of his tidy grins. "We can fix that."

Sam's version of "fixing that," Dean finds, is baby food. Pureed peas were not what he had in mind.

"You can't just start eating burgers and pizza again, Dean. Your body doesn't know what to do with that."

"But _baby food,_ Sam? Seriously?"

Sam snatches back the tiny glass jar with an eye roll and stomps downstairs. He shows up twenty minutes later with a bowl of white rice and an admonition to go easy. Dean plows through it and gets a stomach ache anyway.

He waits until he's done eating to ask about Cas, until Sam's grabbing his bowl and about to head downstairs, so it seems like an afterthought instead of his only thought.

Sam stops in the doorway and does a crap job of pretending not to look worried. "Oh, yeah, uh. He left last night."

Dean frowns. He'd thought they were past the disappearing acts. "He just took off?"

"No, he . . . " Sam gets fidgety. "He said something about having a deal to break and that he had to go."

The bottom drops out of Dean's chest. "A deal? Like, a demon deal?" The hollow feeling only grows. He wishes he more than half remembered Cas's confessions the night before.

"I don't know, he didn't say. But, I mean, that's not possible, is it? Why would an angel make a deal with a demon?"

Dean doesn't know how to respond. He's not really sure about the answer. But he can guess.

"He, um, left this for you." Sam steps back to grab the book he'd been holding when Dean woke up and tosses it into Dean's lap. It's a copy of the bible and there's a bookmark sticking out. "And he said he's coming back, when he can."

Still feeling shell-shocked, Dean opens the book and scans the page for what it is Cas wanted him to find—a passage is marked with a pencil line in the margin. Psalm 34, verses 17 to 20. Sam slips out without a word as Dean reads:

_When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears_  
and delivers them out of all their troubles.  
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted  
and saves the crushed in spirit. 

_Many are the afflictions of the righteous,_  
but the Lord delivers him out of them all.  
He keeps all his bones;  
not one of them is broken. 

— — — — —

That night, Dean's alone in the bathroom again, brushing his teeth this time. He spits and rinses and takes another long look at himself in the mirror.

He doesn't look dead. He looks beaten, but not broken.

"He keeps all his bones," Dean says to himself, turning to the side to check on his bruise. "But not one of them is broken."

He shakes his head. Assuming there's something left up there to pray to, he tells it to make sure Cas comes back with all his bones, too.

— — — — —

And he does. A week later.

By then Dean feels stronger. He's up and walking around, he gets dressed and showers every day—the whole nine. His skin is smoothing, its color returning and the scars fading. He's been eating a lot of ice cream. He's working up to pie. None of this means it doesn't scare the shit outta him when Cas materializes in Bobby's kitchen.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean whips around to see Cas, unkempt but unbloodied. Surprise, relief, and something hokey like excitement ring through Dean louder than the clatter of the spoon he just dropped in the sink.

Cas glances at the sink basin and smiles nervously back at Dean. "You look well."

Dean wishes he could say the same, but Cas looks tired and tense. Brittle enough to snap, actually, but Dean doesn't say that either. Mostly because his tongue might as well be tied in a bow. "I'm— Yeah, I—"

He wasn't sure what it would be like when Cas came back, if he'd feel pissed and surly or confused and bitter—because he'd felt all those things, for a while. But he's not any of them now. He's just glad. From the inside out, just really, totally glad. And he wants to touch Cas so much he twitches with it.

"I'm better," he blurts, "And you're back."

Cas tenses further, like he's shoring himself up, readying for an argument, but he nods. "This is where I am supposed to be. I'd lost sight of that, but now—"

Dean can't help it. He waited too long before and it's been so long since. He can't wait anymore.

"—but now you're home," he interrupts, sliding into Cas's space, one hand at his waist, the other on his neck, and hauls Cas into a full kiss. He doesn't hesitate, because he knows. He knows this is the thing Cas wants too but would never ask for, would never think he deserves—Dean's familiar with the feeling.

In that second everything about Cas softens. He melts into Dean's hands, into the kiss. His tongue slides against Dean's, hot and purposeful, meeting him move for move. They both pull away breathless.

"I thought you would be angry with me." Cas's hands are caught at Dean's belt, eyes stuck at his chest.

Dean shakes his head. "I was, but I'm not anymore. It wasn't your fault, Cas."

Cas makes a face and lets go, turning away. "Yes, it was. The things I've done, Dean . . . and for you to be punished for my sins—I can't begin to make amends."

"I don't think it was just you," Dean offers. Because he's gone over it again and again and that psalm seems to be about him more than it is about Cas. "I'm the righteous one, right? I think maybe my 'cry for help' was just wishing that you'd, I don't know, be around more. Sam died, or I thought he did, and you never came, you know? And then you were back, but you had the war and I was just pissed you weren't, I don't know . . . it sounds stupid, but . . . mine? anymore?" Dean scratches at his eyebrow and tries not to feel embarrassed by his honesty. "I think it was a tradeoff. You needed a reason to stay because I wanted you to stay."

Dean really wishes Cas didn't look like his heart was breaking. If angels did tears, Cas would be about to splash big ones, and his voice sounds choked when he speaks.

"I have to tell you all the things I've done. Your opinion of me may change once you know . . ." He shakes his head, changing tack and picking up speed and turning on the imploring, "I've tried to undo them, Dean, but there's danger for us now, all of us. Unknown things await if Crowley succeeds in opening the door to Purgatory and—"

"Wait, what?" Dean steps forward. "Crowley's alive?"

Cas cringes a little. "Yes. About that . . . He was—"

But Dean stops him short with a shake of his head. "You know what? No. Not yet. You can fess up all you want later but right now there's just one thing I want to know."

"Anything, Dean." Cas says, solemn.

"At the end, there. What you said. About the thing you're _not_ sorry for? Did you mean it?"

Cas looks confused—less I-don't-understand-that-reference confused and more why-is-that-a-question confused. "I— Yes," he snaps to. "Of course."

Dean grins and pulls him close again. "Okay," he says. "I can work with that." He waits for Cas's small smile before kissing him again, smooth and deep.

It's not long before Dean has to pull back again, rolling his lips in and willing some self control. It's not easy with Cas panting against his mouth and one thumb finally having found a bare patch of skin under all Cas's layers. He strokes that smooth spot as he speaks and tries really hard not to think about undressing Cas entirely.

"This doesn't mean I won't be pissed at you later when you start in with the secrets, you know," Dean warns, and Cas nods, forehead pressed to his. "But this'll be here. This doesn't change. It hasn't changed." He huffs a laugh. "Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a stubborn sonofabitch, Cas."

Cas lifts his head and grins at him, big and goofy. "I know," he affirms. "I am too."

 

— end —

**Author's Note:**

> This story now available as a podfic by [ehonauta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/banzai/pseuds/ehonauta). Check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/992447)!
> 
> Another podfic version! This one by [Jeremiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeremiel/pseuds/Jeremiel), and available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1030104).


End file.
